


take me back to the night we met.

by nobodysdarlin



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Feelings, Fluff, Freeform, M/M, Moving, Writing, chuice - Freeform, what smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-22 15:18:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13766913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobodysdarlin/pseuds/nobodysdarlin
Summary: chibs has more to him than meets the eye.





	take me back to the night we met.

**Author's Note:**

> i appreciate all of you that don't mind that i like to write stories more than slash.

It had been a shitty, humid day in July when Juice and Chibs moved house. California was known for it's sunshine, but the devil had come up and blanketed the earth this summer in particular, and moving meant they had to wait until mid-day to avoid the risk of sun stroke.

"Never again, Juicey!" Chibs roared as he came down the small narrow stairs at the back of the house.

"A farmhouse ye wanted. A farmhouse my ass. This place is a hazard zone. If I break my neck on these fucking stairs, Christ Jesus..." He continued, juggling worn cardboard boxes, flipping his hair out of his sweat-red face, his light gray tank gone black from sweat and sticking to him.

"It's so hot. It's so fucking hot." Juice whined as he came in the door, grimacing at the weather and the amount of packing they had ahead of them.

Chibs dropped the boxes on the floor, leaning against the refrigerator to cool off. Any other instance, Juice would have met him and embraced him, rubbed his back and offered some amount of affection. But not today. Today was for grimy, dusty boxes being loaded into the moving truck and as many beers as they could handle while moving the entirety of their first home. 

"What all's left? Just the cupboard?"

"You mean the pantry? The fuck is a cupboard?" Juice snorted, grabbing a laundry basket and heading to the hallway to fill it with any random leftover pieces to pack. He opened the door, grabbing the pull-light in one swift movement as the pale white light filled the small space. There wasn't much left to pack, just a few old coats, random books, and a two boxes labeled 'Chibs' in small, neat print. Juice hadn't noticed the boxes much before, as this was mostly a junk room they barely utilized. It was mostly a place for Chibs to hide his mess while Juice kept the rest of the house immaculate. 

Juice piled everything into the laundry basket so he could haul it off, stacking the boxes on the very top to balance. He noticed that the bottom box was a lot lighter than the top, and rearranged them so as not to crush it's contents. He opened one of the flaps to see what all was in them and his stomach got cold and clamped down like he was cresting a hill too quickly on his bike.

It was a small stack of notes, all in the same skinny scratchy scrawling writing, all addressed to the same person: Fiona.

Juice got tight lipped and his curiosity got the worst of him as he slowly peeled one letter from the stack to read it. Two lines in he realized he was reading a 20+ year old love letter. He got mad. And it was more so anger at himself for feeling that very human, very raw, very blind pain of a jealous nerve working it's way through his body. 

He walked through the kitchen, laundry basket in front of him like a sub-conscious blockade. Chibs smiled at him, a silent thank you, and then a quizzical "What?" once he read his face.

"Nothing."

"How about somthin' then, eh? Shouldn't let an empty house go to waste, what ya say? One last go?" Chibs said, eyebrows raised to a sly arch, tank already coming off as he strode towards Juice, who kept walking out the door towards the moving truck.

Chibs went limp from the waist down. He could read Juice perfectly. If only he knew what the fuck he did.

He followed him out to the truck, where Juice was going red in the face as he loaded up the remaining boxes. 

"What the hell are you on about?" he asked, not as tender as he should have but fuck, it was hot.

"What am I on about? Really? What are you on about? The fuck am I busting my ass for packing up your shit?"

"My shit? Juicey. Our shit?" Chibs asked, spitting on the ground to get the poison out of him, hoping it would help him not reverberate the argument that was manifesting in his throat, searing as boiling water and viscous as vinegar.

Juice stared at him hard, out of embarassement or actual anger, or maybe a combination of both.

'Why do you still have a box of letters to Fiona?"

Chibs opened his mouth to say something, then swallowed it. He turned around and went back in the house.

Juice followed, accosting. He'd opened the stupid, small, petty top of Pandora's box, and there was no going back now.

"You never say any shit like that to me. I have to beg to get any feeling from you and it's taken me a long god damned time to accept that Chibbie. You say you've always been that way and then here you have an entire box of shit proving that wrong. Why are you bullshitting me?"

Still, nothing. Chibs had gone up the stairs two at a time, and Juice could hear him thudding around upstairs.

"Chibs, what the fuck? How are you mad?" Juice was getting that creeping feeling of shame, slowly turning from red to pink in all of his insecurity. But still, how was he supposed to feel?

Chibs returned a few minutes later, grasping a small moleskin notebook that he had folded over a quarter way through, slamming it hard into Juice's chest as he walked by him.

"Fuck yous, alright? You can fuck clear the hell off."

He stormed through the house, his arms raised in exasperation over his head, swatting at invisible ghosts around him in anger.

Juice stared down at the book in his hand. It was a deep cordovan color, rolled up at the edges from wear and tear and probably perfectly molded to the curve of Chibs' back pocket. It was old, or had been at least used heavily.

Juice flipped it open, and began pouring over the pages. Chibs would shoot him if he ever called it a diary, but it was a journal of some type. It was dated and had pages of thoughts, unfinished letters, motorcycle parts to be ordered scribbled in some margins, the height and weight of Abel on his 3rd birthday, and a whole lot of "Juice" as titles.

He sat and poured over the poetic formations of Chibs' mind.

Page 3:

I went through the hallway behind the bar and you came right up to me. It was a weird quiet that happened between the buzz behind and between us.The sound of shitty metal that was moving the floorboards at a pace that in a former life I would have loved to fuck to. But now it was simply a lulling momentum that kept me kind of warm and kind of fuzzy and perpetuated my buzz.

I brushed by a body that didn't give when I made contact. You met me as a solid, grounded force that absorbed the force of me. It made my dick so hard instantally I thought I'd be found out. Numbers 23:23. It rose up the moment you pushed back, twitching in my pants, eager to leave. I want you to find me out.

Page 45:

Alright, here is how it's going to happen.

Strip, fast, slow, grimy, dirty, trip over yourself, don't get self conscious just because you're wearing thread-bare panties and you showered 2 days ago.

Your body is all that mine responds to. It's a light that can't get turned off, no matter how many times the breaker gets tripped.

It's a dim-lit bedroom turned gray by the 6 oclock hour, because this side of your house doesn't get any sun at this time of day.

How do I know that?

Everything looks like it's been filtered through a gray lens, your white shirt, your black tattoos look like they've gone and been hollowed out of your skin they're so dark. Your white socks. My brown belt. Both on the floor at this point in a sea of pitch black. Just like falling for you, I'm afraid to step, sure I'll miss my step and go tumbling down down down and down.

Page 131:  
I think I hurt you today. I can't control myself. You do something to me that makes me forget the life makes me feel like I am stabbing my way out of my own skin from the inside. And fucking you and feeling you and tasting every part of you is the only thing that dulls the knife. Feeling you breathing into me when I'm inside of you in a twisted fucking circle of the best sex I've ever imagined. Fucccckkk fucccckkkk fuck. 

 

Page 200:  
I keep having this dream where I am fucking your throat except you're attached to a motor that is dragging your whole body backwards. Except it's invisible. And I'm moving forward into your mouth and you are so cock hungry you're crying like a fucking child who's lost and once you finally get my cock as far down as you can go, you relax. Then you're jerked back by this invisible crank and I'm running after you, meeting your mouth full hilt as you gag on me over and over again. And you're spitting these white ropes out of your mouth but all you want is more of me. And I finally get my hands on you and flex my fingers round your skull and drill into you until I can feel myself cum all over your throat.  
I shouldn't love this dream as much as I do, but I do. 

Page 122:

Today I look up just in time to see you pull that god damned smile. You were born with more perfect teeth than anyone on the whole fucking planet. These are the things I think of when I see you. Nothing about my heart beating outside of my body. Nothing about how I can or can't start something so late in life. Nothing about how I can barely walk straight after fucking you because I feel like I'm still dreaming and don't want to wake up.

Why do we feel like our lives are over so small and short? Why is life looked at as half over at 40 instead of half lived? These are again my thoughts instead of admiring the feeling I get from the goddamned nearness of you.

Juice stopped after an hour or so of leafing through the pages that weren't ever really meant for him, tossed the notebook in with the last of their shit, and never brought up Fiona ever again.


End file.
